


Things I Can't Stand About You

by TheSoulOfAStrawberry



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, It's Sunday ok, Love but not love?, Sad Martin, Sad in general, Strong Friendship?, Unrequited Love, Urgh loads of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoulOfAStrawberry/pseuds/TheSoulOfAStrawberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas could probably think of loads of things that annoyed him about Arthur. But he'd never say; and even if he did, he wouldn't spit them as bitterly and as coldly as Martin did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things I Can't Stand About You

1) Your smile. I mean... It's so irritating, the way you can make the whole room literally light up, even when Douglas is scowling at you and I'm whining about some godforsaken thing... God. It's like there's not a single tremour in the fabric of existence that could put a dent in that sunbeam grin. How? Why? It's unanswerable, unpredictable, and inexorable. Too unpredictable. Sometimes you smile at me, without any bloody warning, and I just... hate you.

2) Your laugh. It sounds cliché, but it grates on me. Sometimes it's this subtle chuckle- and isn't that annoying, the way you're trying to hold back laughing about something, or you're preoccupied and have this lost, pensive expression that I never thought I'd see on your face. It's weird. I don't think Douglas sees it, either, so maybe you just do it around me, to piss me off. And then, of course, there are the times where you just can't help yourself, no, and it's the most disgusting display of self-indulgence and happiness I ever find myself enduring. All bobbing heads and a raucous kind of guffawing laughter that makes everything funny, even when it's not. Even when I want to cry. And I'm not going to thank you for making sure I don't cry. I don't cry, ever. 

3) Your ideas. Douglas knows it. You know when he says something sarcastic, and it's directed at you? That's because you just had the worst idea in all of human history. Like that time where we drove that awful baggage truck to Albacete, and you thought it would be a marvellous idea to suggest that I could, in fact, do something and not have to expect Douglas to say something witty or point out where I'd gone wrong: because you didn't have the capacity to point out where I would inevitably go wrong, and at that point, that was not helpful... And then you told me we should sing. Sing? I didn't need to know I could enjoy myself in such a carefree way, not then, not now, not ever. That's not the sort of epiphany a 37-year-old unpaid pilot needs. They didn't teach that when I was drowning in debt during my pilot training, or when I came home to find my father terminally ill when no one had even bothered to tell me; or even when he finally died and I felt this terrible, terrible sense of relief. I don't need that kind of support. I don't need support. Or love. Especially not now those moments; all those moments like that one, even when you weren't there to bug me, keep coming back, and reminding me of that ridiculous epiphany. You said you liked my glasses. Taught me to "juggle" apples. Made me build a snowman with you in the freezing cold behind GERT-I. Made me that perfect cup of coffee- or, well, just about any cup of coffee- and that pretended you believed my shallow lie when I told you I didn't get the job with Swiss Air.

4) Your professionality. Or lack thereof. I mean, for God's sake, sometimes, I come out of the flight deck and I see you chatting with a passenger and it is the absolute picture of unprofessionality. Couldn't you just be less kind? You don't need to compliment them, or me, or pretend to take an interest. Just do the job, and stop wasting time making sure every single person you meet feels safe and secure and happy, so that they go home with a smile on their face, rather than crying desperately into their pillow of an evening because they're such a bloody failure. 

5) That look. And it's not even a specific look- no, that would be too easy, you like to find multiple ways of annoying me. When you think about it, you're worse than Douglas. For instance, there's that one where you think you know what I'm thinking. When you know that Douglas has gone to far in teasing me for being such a pathetic waste of space, for example; and it doesn't matter if you're right or not, I hate seeing it written across your face because it makes me feel guilty, seeing you so vulnerable. And then there are those looks where you're merely thinking about God knows what, and it's... How can someone look so happy with their life? Well, it'd have to be bloody you. And, of course, that look when you're upset but won't show it, because it's really subtle, and again, I don't think anyone else notices it, but I do and my throat always goes tight and I think you notice that I've stopped talking. You enjoy it, in your own Arthur-y way. Schadenfreude, isn't it called? You enjoy seeing me hurt by your hurt. It's not some stupid connection we share, because you're not always there for me when I need you and if this is what your eyes sometimes say it is, you would be. 

6) Your naïvety. I think that annoys everyone. Wouldn't we all just love to have heads full of polar bears and Toblerones and apples and baths and whatever else? Some of us have things like bills to think about. Not being able to pay bills. Choosing your happiness over paying bills for five years straight, and then getting the one opportunity to change that for the better, which is actually just the whole dilemma again, but amplified so loud that you can barely think. You don't have that problem. It kills me to see you so happy and oblivious... Are you happy? Are you doing it to piss me off? I know you know I was lying about the job. You gave me a poignant sideways glance in the Portakabin the other day and it just said it all. Do you not understand? Do you choose not to understand? Sometimes I need you to just think straight. I don't want that stupid blank expression or sickening grin, I want the meaningful taking of my hand and that same... Nevermind. 

7) Your hair. Given, I'm kind of the kettle calling the pot black. But still- at least I use a hat to keep my hair relatively tamed. And try to comb it down. Not you! All everywhere, flyaway tufts and those little flicks of brown that get in the way of your eye, and you sometimes have to flick them away when it's getting in need of a trim. I can see you doing it out of the corner of my eye. _Infuriating_. And then, every now and again, you get a little curl, right in the middle of your forehead- I think it's when it's humid- and you look ridiculous, like a cherub. Endearing is not professional. Messy is not professional either, come to think of it... Suit you though it might. Sometimes I have the urge to run my fingers through it. 

8) Your touch. There's not point in me apologising for being so forward about it, because that would divert from the point that it annoys me to no end. You should be glad we've never had a cheesy pop-singer as a client, lest you find that your career (if you can call it that) with MJN comes to an abrupt halt as they become enraptured with that electric frission that passes from your hand, whenever there's the slightest of touches as you hand them their coffee, and then whisk you back to LAX or somewhere that sounds like it's probably had a road in Milton Keynes named after it. And, once again, you seem completely and utterly oblivious to the fact that you're doing it. It's really hard to land a plane when the steward's just given you goosebumps in the literal sense, you know. Not counting the fact that Douglas is watching, and waiting for me to fail: sometimes I think he sees the way you make me feel, which makes it awfully tense in the flight-deck. I don't want him to know. I could really do without the tension, let alone the teasing, particularly with Switzerland and everything. Also, it feels like an infringement of what, I hope, we have.

9) Your hugs. I hate how they make me feel wanted and safe and warm. I hate how you rest your chin on my forehead because I'm just that goddamn short, with one hand entangled in my hair, the other clutching my back, as if you'll never let me go. It really makes me just holding onto your waist look childish. I can hear your heartbeat, thumping away in its ceaseless _de-dum, de-dum_. Your shirt smells like coffee and cologne, and you whisper something I can't bloody hear into the air. Except, then, all of a sudden, you're gone, and I'm left, waiting, wondering. Hanging in the lurch, without validation or direction. It's ridiculous. It's not fair. It's just a cold flight deck, thick with the weight of my undiscussed topic of me leaving you all for the sake of a straight meal, and the incessant whirr of GERT-I's engines, bearing us back to lonely hotel rooms or empty houses. 

I don't want to be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Anger and love come together more than people think. I fell in love once (it was awful, do not recommend, avoid at all costs), years ago, mind, and as it was (debatably) unrequited, I got quite angry with the guy, normally when I went out running or something. 
> 
> The idea that he's could get angry at Arthur is the exact same conflict as love meeting anger- because what would you want to get angry with Arthur about? Maybe if he spilt your tea or coffee. 
> 
> As for the form- what, a letter? I've done emails and a letter before, so maybe. Or cornering him in the back of the cabin, and having it out? Or getting really drunk and yelling it at his awkwardly small room. 
> 
> What the what. I don't normally write mini-essays at the end of shorts. Sorryyyyy. Let me know what you think. Open to criticism.


End file.
